This Girl Wrote a Blog Post. What Happens Next is Really...

...really anticlimactic.

Unjustified Mercy

The other day at work, a couple of my coworkers and I were talking about first impressions. We exchanged our first judgments of each other. Both of them told me that their first impression of me was that I was quiet and very shy, but their opinion changed as they got to know me better. I rolled my eyes, because it wasn’t a surprise. I knew they were going to say that. Part of me hoped for a different answer, but I basically knew that’s the one I would get. And, you know, it’s true. I’m shy (and have come a long way in overcoming it! See my June post “A Newfound Confidence”.) But the fact that I’m shy has always really confused me.

For some reason unknown to me, I tend to give off this impression that I am a sweet, gentle creature who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Really, I don’t like pain, or hurting people, and at heart I am gentle and caring. Unfortunately for me, sometimes I can be quite the people-pleaser. But honestly, when it comes to standing up for truth or fighting against a perceived injustice against me, I’m literally a crusader. I will fight to the death! Well, I’ve never actually killed anyone. And I don’t remember ever dying. I only broke my right hand punching my brother when I was 14. Yeah…that taught me a dang good lesson. Especially since the fight was about whose turn it was to play the piano (nerdiness runs in the family), and that one punch I threw left me with the inability to play piano for a while (my world at the time). Oh, the irony. The only positive to that experience, besides helping to teach me not to lash out physically at people, was that my left handed piano playing improved quite a bit. And no, I do not recommend this as a piano teaching tactic. I was gonna say that my parents should’ve put me in a boxing class so I would learn to punch properly, but that might’ve been a bad idea.

Most people seem surprised if I mention that I have somewhat of a bad temper and am a raging bull in certain conflict situations. It confuses me every time that they would never have known. It makes me feel like a faker or something. But I guess I’m not mad all the time. Anyways, this post is for all those little old ladies from back in the day who took a look at my big brown eyes, short little frame, and shy smile and declared, “Oh she’s a little sweetheart.” Try not to judge a book by its cover. I’d like to show you the home video my parents have of me when I was a toddler, laying on the couch, sucking my thumb nonchalantly. My brother was standing next to me, trying to learn how to walk, and I kicked him over a couple times and laughed. And all because he was stealing my attention. That’s a sweetheart for ya. It might have been a bit cute at the time, but wait until someone like that gets older…ugh.

Ya, my parents had their patience tried a time or two, to say the least. As an adult, I laughed when I was looking for a good book in my parents’ library and found their decently-sized stash of parenting books. I remember at least one of them was called “The Strong-Willed Child” or something to that effect. Clearly my poor parents were seeking some help. I don’t know how much of it they tried to put into practice, but unfortunately, I remember reading that book and feeling like a lot of what it said didn’t really apply to me personality-wise, so of course it wouldn’t have helped them. I don’t exactly know everything that was in those books, but I don’t think any of that advice would really have helped them much seeing as I saw through the tactics and would rather dig in my heels stubbornly and take the consequences than submit to what I perceived as power manipulation.

 Ya, life is intense with me and I’ve never really learned to pick and choose my battles. Cause if it’s right, it’s right no matter how small anyone else claims it is. To me, it’s a big deal. I’ve been told many a time to be a lawyer. When I was a kid, if you told my mom that I said something and you were one word off of what was actually said, I made sure she knew the truth, even if what I actually said was worse. I was an honest child, if nothing else. Not really sure why they thought I should be a lawyer. 

           

There is a guy I know who I grew up with, basically as brother and sister since our parents were so close. The poor kid was in my class at school, which meant I’d tattle on him if he did something wrong. When he told the teacher he had two sisters (actually just family friends he felt were close, but he didn’t clarify that), I blurted out in class that he definitely didn’t have any sisters and he was lying! I guess I didn’t understand the whole “we’re related in my heart” idea or whatever. You were either related or not. And they weren’t. Poor kid. I actually feel bad in retrospect.

 The details mattered to me, and I remembered them all. And if you told me I liked arguing, I’d argue you about how much I hated it until it ended in a spanking. And you know, I really did hate it. I still do. I always have. So why do I do it? Why do I fight and argue and as some have put it, “bitch all the time”? Because truth matters that much to me. And justice matters that much to me. I get stressed about conflict. I hate it. But I will bare my teeth and growl until it’s over if I think, I mean know that I’m right. I’m not afraid to make waves. Oceans would be endlessly murky if it weren’t for the waves cleaning themselves along the shore. People are afraid of waves. I’m more afraid of gunk that lurks beneath them. I think this is what a lot of people don’t quite understand. I walk with my head in the clouds, blowing the air, rustling the water. Everyone else is just kissing the ground, and clinging for dear life. As long as they can ignore the murky water, they feel the murk doesn’t exist. Unfortunately, whether it’s me or another unfortunate person or circumstance, something’s going to eventually wash that dirty gunk to shore right on top of those ground-kissing people. In my opinion, it’s better to deal with the conflict now so we don’t have to deal with it later, and the knowledge that the gunk exists when someone is unwilling to deal with it is enough to drive me literally crazy. I go crazy. I mean really crazy! I don’t believe in brushing things under the rug…unless I feel quite guilty that I’ve actually done something wrong and the other person hasn’t.

Like when I showed up late to work and my boss very kindly chastised me. The tiny bit of criticism made me want to curl up in a corner and sob. So I kind of did for a moment. In this sense, I feel like a coward. Even if I had a good excuse for being late, (like sobbing uncontrollably before work and then hitting every single red light on the way there) I don’t think I would have been able to say it. I’m not an excuses maker like that. It didn’t matter what kind of obstacles I faced, I felt I should’ve been on time, and I felt like the worst human being alive! I guess, the truth is out, folks. I have time management problems, and really a terrible concept of time in general. As I said, my head’s in the clouds. But you all knew that already.

So yeah, I’ve never made excuses to my boss at work. In general, I’m not an excuses maker. A while back, when I was still taking courses at a university, my counselor there sent an email to one of my profs giving him a heads up that I struggled with anxiety and it was hindering me in my schoolwork, and that it would be nice if I could get an extension on a due date. I didn't ask for my counselor to do that, but she offered. I felt guilt surge through me. No excuses. No excuses for me. I should be able to do my work. I was sure there were other people in the class struggling with things worse than me. Why should I get special treatment? Maybe it’s partially the way I was brought up. Maybe it was pride. Yeah, pride which leads to a lack of self-empathy and mercy.

I am totally unforgiving to myself. And likewise, I think I am unforgiving of others. I’ve been awakened to this recently. I am holding something against almost every single person that I know. I have judged them for something. Anything. How dare they not be perfect. Then when they seem pretty awesome, my jealousy comes out and I search for something bad about them.

It’s funny how when I was a kid and I tattled in an attempt to deal out justice, I sometimes at first felt satisfied, then I felt remorse and a desire for the person I had gotten in trouble to be forgiven and granted mercy. And even now, my value for both justice and mercy leave me at a loss for what to really ask for in prayer. Is there a good balance between justice and mercy? What is the right formula? I love the idea of grace, mainly because if I do something wrong like I know I will, I’d like to be given a little grace myself. But does it have to be at the expense of justice? What is the right course of action? I don’t like the idea of sacrificing the truth and a sense of “rightness” for mercy.

I have realized that my lack of forgiveness toward myself as well as others is directly linked to my need to fight for justice. Things need to be fair. Things need to be made right. And if no one else will stand for it, I will. Don’t get me wrong, this can be a great quality. My dad recently gave me a surprising compliment that I will remember forever. During one of his rants about a TED talk he had watched, he told me I was one of few people who will stand for what is right regardless of the opposition. He told me I was a hero. Even if his original intent wasn't really to compliment me, he did. It was the best compliment I’ve ever been given. It made me tear up, though I don’t think he noticed it because he was so busy rambling (which is kind of funny when I think about it). This is a perspective of myself I would love to live up to. To be that someone who will stand up for people and do what’s right even when no one else does.

Then when I think about this concept of heroes, I’m really nothing compared to Jesus. And Jesus didn’t generally fight in an aggressive manner. He had His moments, but He led by example, and He chose His words wisely. He didn’t bother trying to convince fools of things they weren’t willing to accept or hear. He didn’t worry about defending His own name. Jesus didn’t play a pride game. He let his actions speak for themselves and allowed people to do what they would with it. Jesus knew justice would prevail eventually. He left justice to His Father. He played a part in it through His example, but He chose His battles wisely. He forgave those who asked for forgiveness, and asked us to extend the same grace to others as it has been given to us.

My lack of forgiveness leaves no room for mercy. If I am always trying to deal out justice, when will I have time for grace? Who am I to judge, and who am I to be the judge? God knows of the injustices that I face in my life, and that we all face. He knows when others have done wrong, and it’s really not up to me, not up to us to be constantly pointing it out, trying to make someone else see it. We have to trust God that all will be made right in the end. How he deals with it is up to Him. Regardless of what people say, even the little details--the molehills that really are mountains--are important to God, and we have to trust that He will deal with them in His own way. Maybe justice doesn’t mean payback in every circumstance. Maybe God defines justice, and a lot of the time, that means grace. For me, grace is something that is hard to completely understand or accept, but I think it’s something that’s also hard to totally refuse. You have to admit, it’s a nice concept. And it feels good to be unconditionally loved and forgiven. So good, that's it's really a hard concept to understand.

Oh, Dreams Shmeams

My biggest dream as a young kid was to be a cashier, or as I called it, “a storekeeper”. So I guess you could say I’ve fulfilled my dream. And I have to admit, at first it was really fun making the “beepy” noise when scanning items like I always loved, and talking super nice to customers like I always pretended, and seeing all the random items people bring to the counter. It’s starting to get a little boring now, though. I guess being a cashier wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be when I was a child.

At around age ten or twelve, I said that I wanted to be an artist and a musical composer. I also remember stating that if I could be famous for anything, I would want to be famous for writing a book. My friend Trinity and I decided we’d open a store together where we’d sell our art, musical compositions and books. We’d have a stage where we held our musical performances. We’d give art lessons. I’d teach piano and singing and she’d teach violin and dancing. The arts were my passion at the time.

Clearly none of the above has happened. Trinity is off taking courses about rocks or something at a university cause she’s all smart and stuff! (Sorry, Trinity, I can’t remember what your program is called. You do study rocks right? I’m not meaning to unromanticize your dream.) And I’m here, still a cashier. I do have a blog as you can see, so I write a little. I hardly ever create works of art anymore. And I hardly ever play piano. I sing in the shower or in the car, on my way to work. I guess that store dream never happened, and I’m trying to decide if I want it to. It still sounds cool, but having a store requires devotion to a long-term routine, and that would suck. 

By High School (maybe even Jr. High), I became really depressed and started to lose my interest in the things I loved. I loved drawing, but usually only did it in class at school. My favorite drawing from that time in my life was the following oil pastel cheeseburger.

It was so weirdly good that it earned my teacher’s deep approval, and I framed it and hung it on my wall. It’s the only piece of art I couldn’t bear to leave behind when I came to Canada. I wouldn’t part with this baby for a million dollars...maybe. See, this is a problem. I get emotionally attached to the things I create, so I don’t want to be an professional artist and actually sell my stuff.

Though I was good at writing, I often just found myself drawing in English class. I don’t think I’ve ever taken an English class where I’ve learned very much. I tend to like using my own punctuation and style. I have problems with people grading and critiquing me based on their subjective opinions about what sounds better style-wise. At least that’s what it has always seemed like to me. I loved piano, but around age sixteen, after about eleven years of playing, I quit taking lessons. I went from practicing several hours a day to feeling pained every time I sat down to practice. This was all around the time I discovered that boys were attractive. And that’s basically all I thought about. I obsessed over specific dudes who I swore I would marry one day. “I will make him love me”  was my motto. Ya…that never happened. This was the dawn of a new dream for me: marriage and kids. Up until then, I swore that would never happen. And from the looks of things so far, maybe it won’t.

By mid high school, I was claiming that I was gonna get married and have kids, but I would never ever have sex. “Good luck with that” was all I ever heard in response to that idea. I always said I’d make it work somehow. There had to be some other way to get pregnant without having sex. I mean, until I was 17, I thought there were drugs that people messed around with that made them pregnant. I guess I could just be artificially inseminated, but I didn’t know about that option at the time. Plus, how many husbands would agree to that without attempting conception in the normal, easy way first? Reality and I have always had a rocky friendship. Eventually, I decided that sex would have to be part of the deal, and began to get over being disgusted by the thought.

Somehow, I knew I was going to have a degree and be married by age twenty-two. And by twenty-six, I knew I’d have at least a couple kids. I had something against an even number of kids, and I didn’t want just one in case the kid would be lonely, so I decided I had to have at least three at minimum. And if I ended up having another, I would have to have five. And if another, then seven. And if I ended up with eight, it was time to stop being compulsive. Or adopt. I always liked that idea too. I hoped for two boys and a girl. I even had the names all picked out: Cassidy Octavius, Samantha Alison, and Kennedy Satchel. I still had my man all picked out, he just had to start noticing me and get on the pursuing. Ya…that never happened. And none of the men I obsessed over after that liked me either. Since high school, I've thought more practically about how much effort kids are and so I've gone back and forth between saying that I want kids and that I don't want kids. Either way, I probably wouldn't call any poor child Satchel...well, maybe. Ugh, it really just does sound cool, even if it means "bag".  

On the first day of summer this year, I turned twenty-two. Since then, I’ve felt like my life has just been passing me by and I’ve gotten nowhere. I am a college dropout, nowhere near a degree, and I have yet to even date one guy. I’ve basically just hopped from obsessive crush to obsessive crush, each time saying that the current man was destined to love me. Each of them clearly didn’t think so. I guess you can’t force love, and avoiding the very person you’re trying to attract doesn’t help a whole lot either. Life just doesn’t pan out the way you want it to sometimes. Sometimes, a particular dream (in my case marriage) can be so all-consuming that you forget your other dreams and passions. And in my particular case, when the dream you’re fighting for is not really something you can fight to gain, it feels like you’re always losing, always a loser.

Several months ago, I remembered and read a list of goals I had for my life that I had written sometime between the ages of ten and thirteen. I had some high hopes for myself. Some of my goals included  “Run a mile in 5 minutes, become as good as a concert pianist, compose a beautiful piano work, learn to play at least twenty different instruments, write and publish a novel, create a CD of me singing and playing piano, never say a swearword, read the whole encyclopedia, never become fat and stay healthy until I die, learn to paint like Thomas Kinkaid, learn at least five languages fluently, learn to cook and bake as well as mom, act in a play, go one whole day without making one mistake, and (my personal favorite) learn to do the splits both ways (cause that’s incredibly important). Almost all the rest of the goals were travel related. I especially wanted to go to New Zealand to see the Shire they constructed and filmed for the Lord of the Rings films. And what happened to these goals? It seems like in the heat of my passionate love for those guys I wanted and my sad disappointment at their not returning that love, my other dreams just evaporated into the air in the form of a depressive cloud that has been raining on me for years, blocking the sunlight. I ended up giving it all up for a dream that I can’t even really work towards. It is not guaranteed that I will get married. I can’t force someone I love to love me.

I guess this is one instance where my persistent personality needs to let go. I’m the type of person who will fight to the death for something that I’m passionate about. If I love you to pieces, think you’re just the bees knees, if I’m pretty dang sure you’d love me too if you’d just get to know me better, and if you refuse the privilege of getting to know me, by golly I’ma harass you until you give in even if at a moment or two it’s just to feel even and not give you what you want, which is for me to go away. ‘Cept sometimes other people are just as stubborn as I am or moreso, so none of my efforts work. Then I go park my car in front of a railroad track when a train is going by, scream at the top of my lungs, bawl my eyes out, and legitimately mourn the loss. Literally. Because what I feel in my heart is all very true and genuine, even if my actions seemed to point to pure insanity.

And now what? Getting “nowhere’ in my life has, to a large degree, been my own fault as I haven’t really been aiming for much that I can work towards, and I haven’t been putting much effort into deciding what it is I want to do as a career. I haven’t even been paying attention to what I want to do just for fun. Everyone wants me to do something. The career test I took in high school said that there really wasn’t any career that fit my personality and that I should just try being a window painter since that was what a similar personality to mine should be. Despite that, everyone else still has their own idea about what I should do because I’m good at a lot of things. I’ve been told time and time again by all sorts of people that I should be a writer, an artist, an actress, or that I should go on American Idol. I was told by my previous math professor at a community college that I was gifted and should be a math teacher. (I know. I was like, “what?!”) I’ve been told to be an architect, a graphic designer, a model, a makeup artist, a fashion designer, a musician, a piano teacher, a speech pathologist, a philosophy professor, a language interpreter, a photographer, a lawyer, a landscape designer, a journalist, etc. I’ve been told I should do something with kids, or that I’d be a good business entrepreneur. (You know what I say to the entrepreneur one? Lies. Ha!) I complained to my Canadian history professor that I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. He disagreed. It was the same with basically every other subject I’ve ever taken. I can’t say that I’ve ever performed badly in any given subject when I’ve actually tried. I usually do fairly well, even when I don’t try all that hard. But it’s funny, no one ever told me to be psychologist. When I went to a university, however, that’s what I was studying to be. I like psychology. But no one’s ever told me I had any talent in that subject. That might be partially why I quit. People just tell me to stop analyzing things so much. I don’t have a lot of knowledge in psychology, but I would consider myself a natural psychologist in the sense that I’m always looking for explanations for human behavior and thought. Not that I’ve come to any brilliant conclusions…I don’t think? Anyway, it drives people crazy. Including me. I can’t turn it off. It sucks. Especially if I suck at it. Do I? I’ve always wondered.

Do you see where my problem lies? There are way too many options for me! My frustration has gotten to the point where I wish I was only good at one thing. Then I’d at least know what I should try making money doing and I could wash my hands of all this nonsense.

In theory, as I’ve been told many times, I could just choose something and go for it. But I’m too idealistic for that, and it’s frustrating. I’m just waiting for something to jump out at me and grab my attention, or a sign from Heaven to show me my purpose, my destiny. What am I made for?! Sure, people tell me I’m gifted and intelligent, but out of all those things, what will give me meaning and purpose? I just don’t want to spend a heck of a lot of time and money in school to become something that I will find out afterwards that I won’t like. Plus, I really hate routine! I’m like a slow-cooking dinner that everyone’s waiting on with high expectations, but I’m still waiting for someone to come turn on the oven. I don’t feel capable of turning it on myself and no one’s really helping all that much. I guess they can’t force me to be motivated. Especially when I feel that my only two options are to come out burnt or be eaten.

And through all of this, I always seem to come back to the whole missionary idea. I keep threatening to just run away and be a missionary. But I was told once that I either needed money or some sort of skill like nursing to do that. Sometimes I feel like I just want to drop everything, sell all my crap, and get the heck out of this society and its expectations. I just want to fight for some noble purpose. Somehow fight for other people. I want both justice and mercy for the world if that is possible, and I’d like to be the one to make it happen. I want adventure. Today I spent a bunch of birthday money on some new clothes, and I love them. Agh, I just LOVE clothing! Especially pants…I fear pants will always be my weakness. I especially love clothes when I’ve gone for about half a year without being able to buy any for lack of funds.  But I’m kind of sick of all this materialism and consumerism! I want out of here! That is my dream. To live selflessly and with integrity. Do I have to choose something that will make me rich and “successful” according to worldly standards? I feel pressured to. I wish there would be a world-wide pact where everyone would just

STOP

Drop and roll. Just kidding! Hehe.

We should all just

STOP

what we’re doing right now and not stop stopping until we’ve started really solving the big problems in the world like world hunger and prejudice, and violence and all that. I want peace for the world and happiness, and a whole lot of love. And I just want everyone else to want it too and be willing to drop everything for it. So yes, actually, we should stop, drop everything if needed, and roll along to a better future for everyone! But I feel like that’s my idealism talking. And it’s never going to happen.

Maybe the main reason why I’m so unmotivated to “succeed” in this society now is that I’ve been exposed to and recognized its corruption. Success here seems so irrelevant when there are greater things that could be done. I was thinking that maybe I should start thinking like that dude in the movie Robots who says “See a need, fill a need.” I need to choose a project and find some way to incorporate my talents to fight for whatever cause I choose. That might be the only way to motivate me. I just don’t know how. I tend to function in the realm of “why” rather than “how”. I like it when others help me with the “how” of things. It makes life so much easier. I just don’t know what to do. And that is why I’m sitting here paralyzed and getting nowhere. Now, how do I get moving? I just don't know where to start. Someone come carry me away!